Beautiful Games
by AmeliaSkellig
Summary: When John first saw Zatanna, he fell in love, just a little bit. [John/Zatanna, oneshot]


**A/N:** This is going to be a Zatanna/Constantine story, or how John would have met Zatanna if the show had more time... It's not really based on any comic in particular, but I'm definitely drawing on lots of things here, most of them New 52. Stuff about Necro is from Justice League Dark 0, which I hadn't read at the time, but have heard loads about.

It's sort of a songfic based on _Brazil_ by Declan McKenna. (can you believe the kid is like 16? holy shit man. protect him)

* * *

 _"_ _ **I'm faithless now**_ _though we win every time and I don't know how,_

 _'Cause_ _ **I haven't bought you**_ _and_ _ **I haven't sold me**_ _,_

 _But the people are_ _ **dying to get on TV.**_ _"_

When John first saw Zatanna, he fell in love, just a little bit.

She was magic, that girl. Under the stage lights, under the spot light, she was magic. She would have been even if she wasn't a magician. Her hair, a deep midnight black, her eyes, sparkling, laughing blue, her lips as she chanted those spells. She was made of mysticism and mystery, beautiful, and untouchable, powerful, and Christ, he was enchanted. That girl, Zatanna Zatara, the best in show business, she was magic.

And John Constantine, he always had a weakness for magic.

A young punk kid, with his leather jacket, his spiked hair, and _Mucous Membrane_ shirt, smelling of smoke and magic, he watched her perform. Watch her hands move with such grace, even he couldn't see where that card went, or how that rabbit was pulled from that hat. When she bowed, he stood up, clapping, and she met his eyes as she rose back up. He gave her a small smile, taking the cigarette down from his lips. She winked.

Problem was, she was someone else's. He watched as his friend, Nick Necro, the man who had been guiding him around New York, with his tan trench coat and messy black hair, swept the girl off her feet, and kissed those spell-speaking lips, and John simply stood back, and stared.

Then she had turned to him, and she had asked his name, and he was told her, with a wink and a kiss on her knuckles, and she had repeated it back to him, like one of her magic words, and he had been completely under her spell, completely bewitched.

 _"He's got_ _ **eyes**_ _, but he can't_ _ **see**_ _,_

 _Well, he talks_ _ **like an angel**_ _but he_ _ **looks like me."**_

John knew it the moment he looked into her eyes.

He knew it.

She was curious, about him, about the young man with the smirk and seduction in his eye. That night, as Nick slept in their shared hotel room, John had taken her hand, and it was a cheap trick, he knew that, but he wanted her, so asked her to show him real magic. She had, and her eyes had flashed slightly brighter, and she spoke, and their hands, together had ignited. He had wanted to tell her that wasn't what he meant, that he wanted to feel the magic of her lips on his, her skin on his, her body on his, but he remained silent and watch the flames lick painlessly at his skin.

But it changed when Nick Necro fell into Hell, and John Constantine shed his leather jacket, his old band shirt, and donned the classic pale coat, and the life Necro could have lived. The magic girl, she felt something for him too, he knew it, he felt it in her embrace, heard it in her whispered words, breathed it in through her kiss like nicotine.

But then she was gone, and perhaps, John thought, it was best. Both magic and love, after all, are simply drugs, and the most addicting drugs there are. Too much will lead to overdoses, to death. And he had no plans to die. No, he had one foot in Hell already.

So, John Constantine continued on his path alone, and there were others, and he loved them, but they all died, horrifically, torn from his side, and he built up walls, for he knew it was his fault, all of it, all of their deaths, because of how he lived, but he wasn't giving it up, he would not do that, the withdrawal would be too great. It would consume him. Sometimes though, selfishly, he would wish that she was with him. There were nights where he sobbed and drank himself to sleep, when the bed was too big, when all he need was someone else, someone who understood him.

But she was gone. And he deserved it.

 _"Oh lord!_ _ **What have I become?**_

 _I'm_ _ **the face of God**_ _,_ _ **I'm my fathers' son,**_

 _ **I'm not what you think you see**_

 _I know you can't eat leather, but_ _ **you can't stop me!**_ _"_

After a few run ins where he would wait for her after her shows , or sometimes completely by accident, simply in the same place at the same time, often there for the same thing, he knew he had changed. They had both changed.

He had been stumbling through town, after a fight with a banshee, bloody and dying, and wondering if this was it, and had run into her and she caught him, and carried him home, and fixed him with her magic spells, her magic voice. Magic. What a drug. What a high.

And in his poisoned delirium, he had murmured to her, whispered about how he was killer, told her about how he had killed his mother, how all those deaths were on him. He told her about Newcastle, about Astra, how he failed to save an _innocent_ _child_ and damned her soul to hell. He told her about Gary. About all the angels and demons, and his mission.

"It's not your fault, John," she said sadly. How did she manage to make sad look so enchanting?

"It is, Zee," he said. "There's no difference between me and them."

"John Constantine, you listen to me. You are trying. You're trying to save them. And running around, nearly killing yourself isn't helping anyone."

"Tell that to all those people whose bodies were being used for joyrides, and I saved them."

"You're not doing this for them. Don't lie to yourself. Stop using this as an excuse. Save people to save people, or back out. You're going to end up dead, and I don't want that."

 _"Why would you lie,_ _ **why would you lie about how you feel?**_

 _I've got a mission and_ _ **my mission is real**_

 _Because_ _ **you've had your chances**_ _, yeah you've had enough_

 _ **I'm gonna burn your house down**_ _to spread peace and love_

 _And it gets me down,_

 _ **Oh Lord, how it gets me down.**_ _"_

They had fought a few times after that.

John made so many mistakes... He owned up to that, he knew that. It was beginning to be clear that they had conflicting ideas on the world, on how to be a hero, on how to survive. They clashed whenever they met, and part of her hated him, and he deserved it. And just like that, with a snap of her fingers, she would be gone again, like the climax of one of her magic tricks.

He didn't see her again until Madame Xanadu called them all together. Until they formed a team that was destined to fail. And he had been cold, he had been bitter. He knew that the only way to survive was to be selfish. He had always been selfish. Now, the only difference was that they all knew it. He joined the team to save the world, because he had to. Zatanna, she looked at him differently. There was something an uneasy trust and painful distrust. Because despite it all, he still loved her. Because it was a drug, and he had been addicted ever since that first night.

It was a drug. What a drug, what a drug.

One night, they sat there, and he had grabbed her hand, and cast the same spell she had, and their hands had ignited, but it was a cold flame. He still had stop the Rising Darkness, while working with this team of heroes, a place he didn't belong. She was working to save the world, but not out of some debt, but out of the great goodness of her heart. She was magic.

He always had such a weakness for magic.

 _"_ _ **I wanna play the beautiful game**_ _while I'm in Brazil_

 _'Cause everybody plays the beautiful game out in Brazil_

 _And_ _ **it's all you've ever wanted, and it's all that you want still,**_

 _Don't you wanna play the beautiful game out in Brazil?"_

There was one day when he had asked her if she had ever wanted to run away, and she had been very quiet, and then she had said yes. He asked her if she would, if she would run away with him. And she said maybe. Maybe, if it got so bad she couldn't keep going, she would. He could hear it in her voice, and he knew the truth. Zatanna was no coward, not like him, and she would not abandon the world, would not run away. Things would never be that bad, and if they were, John Constantine would be lightyears away.

They would not run away together, and there was no way for them to work out. He tried... By God, he tried, he was addicted, and he didn't care about the overdose now, he wanted more.

She was the one to let go eventually, and it even the way she did that was magic.

He shrugged his shoulders, and clenched his jaw, and shut his eyes, and knew that it was what he deserved, and anyways, people around him died, it was a death sentence, this was better, for her sake at least. If he could have chosen, he would have chosen differently.

Because he was selfish.

But that girl, she was magic, and even as she turned away from him, from his filthy life, because she was a hero, and he was not, he still loved her. And he accepted it. She didn't need to be under the spotlight, under the stage light, not to him, oh, not to him. Since the first time he had seen her, he had been under her spell, and nothing could break it. He was no longer that boy with the leather jacket, but it still had not changed, this weakness for magic, _her_ magic, _her_.

Love... What a drug.

As John watched Zatanna walking away from him, he fell a little bit more in love.

Just a little bit.

" **He's got eyes, but he can't see,**

 **Well, he talks like an angel, but he looks like me!"**


End file.
